


The Skull Cove Lighthouse Affair

by Rose_of_Pollux



Series: Spies and the supernatural [6]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: M/M, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-11
Updated: 2018-10-31
Packaged: 2019-07-29 17:09:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16268669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rose_of_Pollux/pseuds/Rose_of_Pollux
Summary: After a heavy fog strands Napoleon and Illya at an old lighthouse converted to a bed & breakfast, the duo find themselves in the middle of an otherworldly mystery from a hundred years ago.





	1. Act I: A Foggy Night in Maine

Illya scowled as the fog thickened as he drove along the cliffside path upon the Maine shores.

“This is exactly what we do not need,” he muttered. “If it gets any thicker, I would be concerned of going off the road.”

“That would be a bad thing, given the Atlantic Ocean being right there,” Napoleon said, trying to navigate with a map and a flashlight in the front passenger seat. “According to this map and feedback from our trackers, we should be approaching Skull Cove.”

“…A welcoming name, it is not,” Illya deadpanned.

“Well it was intentional—the cove was the sight of so many shipwrecks until the lighthouse was built—some even after,” Napoleon said, now reading from a tour guide. “When ships eventually rerouted to other ports, the lighthouse was closed and fell into disrepair until about ten years ago, when it was converted to a bed and breakfast. …Hey, maybe we can stop here for the night; I’d rather sit this fog out than try to drive through it.”

“As would I,” Illya said. “Just where is this lighthouse?’

“Well, offhand, I would say it’s that great big light in the fog over there,” Napoleon said. He paused, marveling at the light—specifically, the bright blue shade of the light. “Must be neon or something.”

“Mmh,” Illya grunted, not sounding impressed. Nevertheless, he was eager for a rest and drove in the direction of the light. Eventually, the lighthouse itself came into view; Illya parked alongside the other cars that had been parked there already.

“Skull Cove Lighthouse Bed and Breakfast,” Illya read off of the sign. “I hope they have some sort of fixings for dinner, as well.”

“If not, we have our rations,” Napoleon assured him. “And I brought extra--thankfully, I planned ahead in case we did end up with some unintended delays.”

Illya looked to him in relief.

“I could kiss you.”

“Oh, please do,” Napoleon said, eagerly.

“…You are shameless,” Illya chided. “But I can’t deny you when you have asked so nicely.” He kissed him as they walked the pathway to the front door.

Napoleon grinned and kissed him back before they entered the lighthouse. The main room at the base of the structure was both a lobby and a dining room, with a kitchen walled off separately.

“Quaint,” Napoleon commented.

“And I see food,” Illya added, in approval, as he saw a young man serving salad to two young women, a man in his 30s, and a slightly older businessman at the table. The young man seemed to be trying to chat with the two women; one of them seemed to be completely uninterested in what he had to say, but the other was clearly egging him on.

“Junior, leave those ladies alone!” the middle-aged desk clerk chided him. “We have new guests, anyway!” He looked to Napoleon and Illya and acknowledged them with a nod. “Good evening, Boys. I’m James Hawthorne, proprietor of this establishment. You’ll have to excuse my son; those two young ladies are fresh off the boat from Italy, and they’re turning the boy’s head. Now, then… I presume you two are here for a room?”

“That would be why we are here, yes,” Illya said.

“Well, you boys are lucky—you’ve got the last one,” Mr. Hawthorne said. “We don’t have that many rooms here in this old lighthouse—not that we usually need any, since most folks stay just for a night because of fog banks like this.”

“What do you do in the off-season?” Napoleon wondered.

“We also run a ski lodge in the winter in Colorado,” James Jr. said. “Can I take your bags up to your room?”

“Just this one, please; we’ll keep the rest with us for now,” Napoleon said, handing over his overnight bag; the rest of their luggage contained sensitive equipment—things they weren’t going to let out of their sight for a moment.

The younger Hawthorne shrugged and did as he was instructed as his father handed Napoleon and Illya the keys.

“You can sit down and have dinner with the rest of the guests,” he said, indicating the small, circular table. “The ladies and Mr. Fusco are passing through, like you.” He indicated the businessman, who was grumpily eating, clearly wanting to be elsewhere, but had been stranded by the fog.

“And what about that gentleman?” Illya asked, indicating the man in his 30s, who was eating with one hand and perusing through an untidily-scribbled notebook with the other. “What’s his story?”

“That’s Lawrence Schuler, self-proclaimed ‘Chronicler of the Unexplained.’ He’s… an eccentric feller,” Hawthorne said, diplomatically. “He’s been here for a few days now, eager to catch a glimpse of the ghost ship and write about it.”

Illya froze, his expression fixed upon his face.

“I’m sorry—the what?” he asked, as Napoleon let out a sigh.

“One hundred years ago, before this place had electric lights, a particularly bad storm doused the light in the lighthouse tower on Halloween night, and a merchant ship went down off the coast, taking most of the hands with it,” Hawthorne said. “They say that ghostly activity increases around this time of year—and it culminates with a sighting of the ship, the captain, and the crew that perished that night on Halloween.”

“…Halloween starts tomorrow at midnight,” Napoleon realized. “Well, thankfully, we’ll be on our way by then.”

Illya exhaled and nodded, decidedly against dealing with the unexplained and otherworldly after the few run-ins with them that he and Napoleon had in the past.

“It’s quite a sight, I’m told,” Hawthorne said.

“I, ah… You haven’t seen it?” Napoleon asked.

“Well… To tell you the truth, I’m a mite nervous about seeing it,” Hawthorne admitted. “My son and I usually don’t stay the night. Even if Schuler will be here, we won’t be. The place already has a chill tonight.”

“Well, maybe we can go up to the light and warm up there,” Napoleon mused, as he signed the register.

“The light?” Hawthorne asked. “That light hasn’t worked in years; they don’t make wirings like that anymore—been meaning to have a new one installed for the aesthetic, but we never seem to get around to it.”

Illya slowly facepalmed as Napoleon’s eyes widened, recalling the light he had seen outside.

“But… I could have sworn I saw…”

“Was it a bright blue light?” James Jr. asked, coming back down the stairs.

“Yes, it was,” Napoleon said. “I don’t suppose--”

“You saw the ghost light, Mr. …Solo,” the young man said, quickly glancing at Napoleon’s signature on the register to get his name.

“Who saw the ghost light!?” Schuler asked, looking up from the table.

This prompted the two Italian girls to roll their eyes as Fusco determinedly ignored the nonsense as Napoleon gave a sheepish wave to Schuler. Schuler immediately got up, drew a chair to the spot between him and one of the Italian girls, and practically begged Napoleon to sit there and talk about what he saw.

Illya grumpily sat down opposite Napoleon, between Fusco and the other Italian girl; though he ate the food, he was still vexed at Schuler grabbing Napoleon’s attention away from him.

“Is there even a point to this discussion?” he asked. “Napoleon likely was merely seeing things in the fog—it is late, and we are tired after a long day.”

“Illya’s right,” Napoleon said. “I really don’t know what I was looking at—come to think of it, I’m questioning if I saw anything at all.”

“Illya?” Schuler said. “A Russian name?”

“Yes, I was born in Moscow—but I grew up in Kiev,” Illya replied, glad to turn the conversation away from ghosts. “My mother’s side was Ukrainian.”

Schuler stared for a moment and took out another book of notes.

“What year were you born?”

“I was born in 1933. Why?” Illya asked, his eyebrows arching suspiciously.

“Hmm… a stretch, but it could work if she had married and had a child late! That means you’d be the perfect age!”

“…For what…?”

“To be the son of the lost Grand Duchess Anastasia Romanov!” Schuler said. “One of the many theories is that, after her family was executed, she escaped and lived the rest of her life incognito—perhaps even in Ukraine! You could be a Romanov!”

Both Napoleon and Illya stared at him now.

“…Well, it is a stretch, as I said,” Schuler admitted.

“Stretched so far, it snapped,” Illya said, darkly. “Is this what you do for a living? Going around writing your own stories about unexplained incidents?”

“Oh, this stuff sells,” Schuler said.

“I’ll bet it does,” Napoleon mused.

“But all of this research I’ve done—all the hours spent doing interviews and reading old accounts… It’s time I witnessed a bizarre happening firsthand, and here is my chance to do so at last!” Schuler said. “Mr. Solo, you have to tell me what it is you saw!”

Napoleon shrugged and continued to explain that he could have seen just about anything—or nothing—in the fog. Illya just shook his head and resumed eating, content knowing that they would be out of here in the morning and could distance themselves from this oddball.

“ _Mi scusi, Signore…_ ”

Illya looked up, glancing at the Italian woman next to him.

“You said you are from Russia and the Ukraine?” she asked, her accent thick.

“Yes, but I will state here and now once again that I am not a Romanov,” Illya insisted.

“No, I didn’t think you were,” she said, through a laugh. “I wish to ask a question. You have been in America… how long?”

Ah, so that was it—a new immigrant, seeking advice from a fellow immigrant. Illya was sympathetic to that.

“I was in the UK first,” Illya said. “I attended Cambridge. And then I worked in Berlin for some time; I was transferred to New York in 1960. So, I have been here ten years.”

“Ah,” she said. “…Do you miss it? Russia and the Ukraine?”

Illya paused. He glanced across the table at Napoleon, who had zoned out listening to Schuler’s ramblings, his chin propped on his hand as he looked very, very bored indeed. Despite himself, Illya smiled.

“Not anymore.”

The young lady smiled.

“Your _amore_?”

Illya nodded, blushing slightly.

“Is it that obvious?”

“ _Si_. My little sister and I could see it as you came in,” she said. She indicated the other young woman, who was now flirting with James Jr. again. “I am Lotte Rigassi—that is my sister, Gina.”

“Illya Kuryakin,” he introduced himself. “And that is my partner, Napoleon Solo.”

Lotte did a double-take at the name.

“Is he supposed to be named after--?”

“Yes,” Illya smirked. “When I was transferred 10 years ago, it was to help him on an assignment. It was meant to be temporary, but…”

“ _Amore_?”

“ _Amore_ ,” Illya agreed. “I ended up staying just to be with him, and I never once regretted it.”

Lotte nodded.

“Gina and I, we have not been here long enough to find our Special Ones yet,” she said. “We were born in Sicily just after the war; very little was there for us. My parents, they encouraged us to come here—instructed me to look after Gina.” She sighed, shaking her head as Gina continued to flirt with James Jr. “She wants a Hollywood romance like she sees in the movies. Trying to convince her to be realistic does nothing. Perhaps she is afraid of not finding someone. …Sometimes, I am, too.”

“I had resigned myself to living the rest of my life alone, as well,” Illya said. “But then I met Napoleon. There’s hope for you yet—both of you.”

Lotte nodded.

“ _Grazi_ ,” she said. “For your kind words of encouragement. I will have hope--”

She was cut off as the windows in the lobby and dining area suddenly burst open, sending a chill wind through the rooms—and in the wind, a ghostly wail was carried through the air. And the mist from outside inexplicably began pouring in through the windows, creeping across the floor and refusing to dissipate as fog normally would.

“What was that!?” Napoleon demanded, getting to his feet. He then indicated the bizarre behavior of the fog. “And what is this!?”

“Ghostly activity,” Schuler said, his eyes positively shining. “This is it—this is exactly what I came here for!”

“Well, I don’t know about that,” Illya said. “But it could very easily be some local teens’ idea of a prank to try to get some laughs.”

He felt his pocket for his Special out of habit; Napoleon also did the same, and the two partners headed out the door, aiming to determine exactly what the source of this bizarre problem was.


	2. Act II: Footprints

The fog was still quite thick as Napoleon and Illya stepped back into it, trying to find out who or what was behind the odd happenings inside. The alleged ghost light that had been in the top of the lighthouse was no longer there, but something else was—a trail of glowing footprints coming down from the top of the lighthouse to the ground, as though someone had walked sideways down the structure, unimpeded by gravity, and then continued across the lawn, heading deeper into the fog.

“…How…?” Napoleon began, gesturing to the footprints. He turned to Illya, his arms out in a shrug of utter confusion.

“If this is a Halloween prank, it’s a highly elaborate one—my compliments to the ones with the gumption to pull it off,” Illya said.

“…Is it a prank, though?”

Illya sighed deeply, shaking his head in desperation.

“I want it to be,” he said, sincerely. “You have _no idea_ how much I want it to be just a prank. …Well, perhaps you do have an idea.”

“I do,” Napoleon said, gently squeezing Illya’s hand. “You’re afraid of losing me to something from beyond.”

“My fears are not unfounded, given what has happened to us before!” Illya exclaimed. “Last year, facing off against Stingy Jack…!”

“We got through that, and we can get through this,” Napoleon said.

“But why must we go through this at all!?” Illya asked. “That is also what I wish to know—what have we done to deserve the constant attention from otherworldly things!?” He sighed, looking at the footprints. “I suppose I should be grateful that this is all we’re dealing with right now…”

He trailed off as a voice echoed around them on the wind. By reflex, Illya seized Napoleon’s arm.

“Not for nothing, Tovarisch, but I think you just jinxed it…” Napoleon said, placing his other hand on Illya’s. He frowned, trying to discern what the voice was saying. “It sounds like… ‘Wind hates me.’ …What does that even mean? It makes no sense—why would the wind hate him?”

“…I am not so fond of this voice myself,” Illya intoned.

“If it’s the ghost ship, does he mean the storm that caused it to go under?” Napoleon wondered aloud. He tried to peer through the fog bank. “Let’s see if we can follow these footprints and find out where they lead.”

“I would be careful, Napoleon,” Illya warned. “You can’t see very far in this fog, and don’t forget, we are on a cliff!”

As Illya had predicted, the footprints led to the edge of the cliff; standing back, they peered down, and it was clear that, as with the lighthouse itself, the footprints continued vertically down the cliff, where upon they resumed horizontally along the sand and into the water—the blue glow of the footprints were visible in the shallows.

“So, let’s see what we’ve got here,” Napoleon said. “We have a ghost that glows where the lighthouse should have been emitting its light, and after he’s done with that, he walks down the lighthouse, across the lawn, down the cliff, and into the water, complaining about the wind hating him.”

“…A sentence I never expected to hear in my lifetime, but here we are,” Illya deadpanned.

“Here we are,” Napoleon agreed. “…And I don’t get it. It doesn’t make sense--”

He was cut off as a bright, white light flashed behind them; the duo turned around, trying to see where the light was coming from in the fog. Another bright light lit up part of the fog for a moment; it was back at the lighthouse, and the two headed back to it as a third light briefly flashed again…

There was a yelp as Napoleon crashed into someone.

“Watch out! My camera!”

Napoleon, who had unintentionally bowled him over, got back up, confused.

“Schuler!?” he exclaimed.

“Yeah,” the paranormal investigator said. “You two were taking a long time, so I figured it must have been something—I took a look outside and saw the footprints on the lighthouse. Have you ever seen footprints like these!? This is the real deal—pure, genuine ectoplasmic residue!”

He held up his camera and took another picture; a Polaroid dispensed from the camera, which he carefully put in his bag with the others.

“Was there anything else?”

“Other than the footprints?” Napoleon asked. “Something about the wind, but it makes no sense at all.”

“…What?”

“If I figure it out, I’ll let you know,” Napoleon said.

“Okay, same here,” Schuler said, and he continued to inspect the footprints.

Illya just shook his head again and followed Napoleon inside.

“Did you find out what it was?” Hawthorne asked.

“No,” Napoleon admitted. “Something strange is going on, though; there’s no explanation for the weird footprints out there. And I think I heard a voice, but only just for a moment.”

“Then there is truth to what Signore Schuler was saying?” Gina asked, her eyes wide, no longer flirting with James Jr.

“Until we find an explanation for it, anything is possible, I guess,” Napoleon said, with a shrug.

Gina murmured something under her breath, and Lotte immediately made the sign of the Cross.

“It could also be nothing,” Fusco grunted, not even looking up from some papers he was going over. “If you ask me, that’s all it is. You can stick around and play mystery-solvers all you want; I’m getting a good night’s sleep and getting out of this madhouse first thing in the morning!”

He got up from the table and headed upstairs to his room.

“…And here I thought I was the antisocial one…” Illya commented.

“Perhaps you were--a long time ago,” Napoleon mused. “I think I’ve rubbed off on you since those days.”

“Just my luck…”

Lotte watched the two of them bantering for a moment and smiled, but then turned to Hawthorne.

“You will forgive us, but I think Signore Fusco is right about being refreshed and ready to leave in the morning. Gina and myself, we must get to our new place in Brooklyn—where was it again, Gina?”

“Flatbush?” Gina asked. “Something like that.”

“That’s it,” Napoleon said.

“Ah, _grazi_ ,” Lotte said. “We will make our way there by train—call for a cab in the morning.”

“And we should be getting back to Manhattan ourselves,” Napoleon added, looking to Illya. “We’ve got work to catch up on.”

“And a cat to feed,” Illya added; idly, he wished that Baba Yaga was here in Maine with them, seeing how she had proven to be quite a help against Stingy Jack’s supernatural army the year before.

“Well, I’ll be sorry to see you all go, but I can’t blame you,” Hawthorne said. “Everything should be ready for you boys upstairs; let me or Junior know if you need anything else.”

“We will,” Napoleon promised. “Thanks a lot.”

The two of them headed upstairs to their room, and the sisters headed to their room, as well. Upon reaching the room, Napoleon looked through the window.

“Nothing out there except Schuler and the footprints,” he said. “He’s still inspecting them; he’s out there in the fog with a tape measure, measuring footprints and the space between them.”

“Well, I’m glad he’s keeping himself entertained,” Illya said.

They changed and got into bed. Illya was happy to relax at last; aside from the incident at dinner and the voice outside, there didn’t seem to be any other issues, apart from Schuler going nuts over the ghost footprints.

He sighed, contentedly, cuddling up to Napoleon, who responded by wrapping his arms around him.

“You know… When that fog clears in the morning, I’ll bet the view here is going to be so romantic,” Napoleon murmured.

“Perhaps,” Illya said. “Though I have to agree, this would be a cozy place, were it not for the odd goings-on.”

“Yeah, well…. We _have_ seen worse.” He gently kissed Illya. “But we can make things much better now.”

Illya smiled, tempted, but gave him a slight nudge.

“We have a nine-hour drive tomorrow, Napoleon; we need to be rested.”

“Oh, good point,” Napoleon sighed. “Well, goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Napoleon.”

The two of them soon drifted off to sleep, a rest that was surprisingly peaceful… Until an agonized scream filled the lighthouse a few hours later. The two of them sat bolt upright, utterly confused for a moment before jumping into action, running in the direction that the scream had come from.

They were joined in the hall by Hawthorne, his son, and the Rigassi sisters; Fusco stuck his head out of his room grumpily, saw them run past, and withdrew back into the room. They ended up outside Schuler’s room, which was left ajar. Hawthorne slowly opened it, revealing Schuler in his bed with a half-frightened, half-elated expression—and glowing blue footprints all around the floor.

“It was another light! Another ghost light!” he stammered, pointing at the footprints. “It woke me up—the glowing. That was when I saw it, and it fled when I screamed…” His face fell. “It stole my Polaroids!”

“… _What_?” Napoleon asked.

“The pictures I’d taken of the footprints outside—the ghost light was making them hover right out of my bag, and it took the pictures with it when it vanished.”

“Perhaps it didn’t appreciate you taking pictures of its footprints outside,” Illya said, sarcastically.

Schuler missed the sarcasm, and stared at the ones on the floor.

“These are different footprints,” he said. “I should know—I spent hours measuring the ones outside…” He crawled out of bed, taking his tape measure again, and his notebook. “See? The prints outside were a size 13—these are a size 10!”

Napoleon frowned as he glanced at the footprints.

“…You know, he’s right—these ones are smaller than the other ones,” he said, kneeling beside them. He flinched. “And for some reason, these ones… give me a bad feeling.”

“What do you mean?” Illya asked.

“I don’t know how to explain it,” Napoleon said. “But I didn’t feel that the ones outside were anything to be worried about. These ones give me an uneasy feeling. I don’t know why; maybe I’m just tired.”

Illya didn’t say anything; as much as he wanted to dismiss this whole thing, he knew that, as enforcement agents, their instincts had to be always honed to perfection, even when tired or sleep-deprived. If Napoleon had a bad feeling about these footprints, then, as much as Illya hated to admit it, perhaps there was something malevolent afoot.

“…Do you think there’s something to this after all, Dad?” James Jr. asked, sounding nervous.

“I don’t rightly know,” Hawthorne said. “This has never happened before—usually, the stuff with the coming inside the rooms happens after we’ve left for Halloween. Something must be drawing things out a night early.”

“And the fog only keeps getting thicker out there,” Illya added, frowning as he gazed out the window. “Is this normal?”

“…For Halloween night,” James Jr. said. “Like Dad said, something seems to be setting things off a day early.”

“Well, it _is_ a Leap Year,” Napoleon mused. “Maybe they’re a day off because of that…?”

“No, these ghosts would be from a century ago—they’d know about Leap Year and wouldn’t be confused,” Schuler said, shaking his head. “Sometimes, spirits can become more active by being around the presence of mortals who have had experience with the spirit world before.”

Both Illya and Lotte paled, but Illya shook his head. Sheer nonsense! Anyone who would believe that he, Illya, was a descendant of the Romanovs had to be speaking only nonsense!

…And yet, he had been right about the sizes of the odd footprints…

“Gina, we are leaving,” Lotte suddenly announced. “We will take a night train to Brooklyn.”

“Now?” the younger sister asked. She glanced at the footprints and reconsidered. “Si…. Perhaps that is best…”

“Ladies, I know I can’t force you to stay,” Hawthorne said. “But with this fog getting thicker, it’s too dangerous.”

“He’s right,” Illya said, quietly. “I do not like this anymore than you do, but we will have to wait until it clears to go. If I had my way, I, too, would wish to leave this instant.”

“We’ll look out for everyone here,” Napoleon offered.

“Against what seems to be two ghosts—at least?” Schuler asked. “There’s only so much mortals can do against them--”

Napoleon and Illya hastily shushed him as the sisters exchanged worried glances.

“Junior, perhaps you’d better escort them back to their room,” Hawthorne said.

“Right, Dad,” he said, moving to take Gina by the arm until Hawthorne cleared his throat, glaring at him.

“And come back in five minutes,” his father added.

Gina did seem slightly amused, cheering up slightly, but Lotte remained pale and worried—and unamused.

“Well, so much for sleep tonight,” Schuler sighed, reaching for his bag. “What the…? The spirit took my camera, too! It took the pictures and the camera!”

He wordlessly showed them the bag, which was empty, aside from notebooks, writing implements, and measuring devices.

“This is a bizarre haunting,” Napoleon said. “We have one spirit outside, complaining about the wind, and now another spirit inside, trying to get rid of all photographic evidence of the spirit outside.”

“Yeah, this is a new one, even for me,” Schuler said. “I’m not even upset about the camera—it was a cheap one. I’m just puzzled about why this spirit doesn’t want us knowing about the other one.”

“I wonder if it has anything to do with the shipwreck and the ghost ship,” Hawthorne mused. He glanced back at his son as he returned. “Junior, do we still have the logs of the lighthouse keepers?”

“In storage, yeah,” James Jr. said. “Do you think we’ll find something useful in those old logs?”

“Maybe,” Napoleon said. “If it helps us understand what exactly is going on here, I’d call that useful.”

“Give them the key and show them where to go,” Hawthorne instructed his son,

He turned to Illya. “You want to come along and look through them? Or would you rather stay out of it?”

“And leave you alone with spirits possibly about? Not likely,” Illya returned, without hesitation.

“I’ll keep making measurements of these footprints and join you later,” Schuler said. “Keep an eye for my camera, huh?”

“Right,” Napoleon said.

“You two take care,” Hawthorne said. “After he shows you to the storage area, Junior and I will be patrolling the halls and making sure Mr. Fusco and the girls are alright. Let one of us know if you need anything.”

Napoleon and Illya nodded in agreement.

Hopefully, they would get to the bottom of this—before anything else happened.


	3. Act III: The Plot (and Fog) Thickens

It was clear that no one had been in the storage area for quite some time, based upon the clouds of dust the duo kicked up just walking in and starting to page through the logs written by the lighthouse keeper at the time, a man named Reginald Adams.

“Here we are—October, 1870,” Napoleon said. Even though Illya now was reading over his shoulder, he still read it aloud. “‘October 29—I received a carrier pigeon message from the _Wyvern_. The waters are rough and churning from ill weather and poor conditions. The First Mate has been stricken with seasickness--”

“Ugh, I sympathize,” Illya said, placing a hand over his stomach at the thought of the choppy waters.

“‘All of his duties have since been taken over by the purser. They are not too far from shore; even with this rough weather, the _Wyvern_ is a mighty steamship, and Captain Sturges is a well-seasoned sailor, and they are determined to bring the ship in. Though the fog remains thick, I pray they will be able to make it safely, especially with that heavy cargo.’”

Illya blinked.

“What cargo? I don’t suppose there’s a manifest lying around, is there?”

“Not that I can see,” Napoleon said, taking a look. “I can’t exactly see a lighthouse keeping a record of ships’ manifests; that’s more for the shipping companies.”

“True…”

Napoleon shrugged and continued reading.

“‘October 30—I received a second carrier pigeon from the _Wyvern_ ; this one was sent from Purser Smith personally. The seasickness has stricken much of the crew now, along with the First Mate; Captain Sturges and Purser Smith are among the few unaffected. Attempts to send a bird out to them with a message to weigh anchor until the weather calms will be useless; Purser Smith says that Captain Sturges still wants to bring the ship in tonight, and no amount of my advice will convince him to change his mind.’ …And then there’s a quickly scribbled entry below it… ‘October 31—in the early morning hours, the _Wyvern_ sank off the coast. The light in the lighthouse had been extinguished without my knowledge, and the ship went down in the cove; Purser Smith is the only survivor; Captain Sturges and the remaining hands went down with the ship.’”

“I suppose it makes a morbid amount of sense,” Illya said. “The Captain would not leave without the crew—most of whom were sick and could not escape in time, I’d wager. Smith must have been the only able-bodied crew member, and was the only one able to swim to shore one the ship began to sink.”

Napoleon continued reading.

“‘My gross negligence has cost them their lives, and I will carry the weight of this for the rest of my life.’ The other entries aren’t as detailed as the previous ones; Adams clearly did not get over this, and he quit the position the following year.”

“I can understand that,” Illya said. “It must be a horrible feeling, thinking that there might have been something you could have done to prevent such a tragedy from occurring. But it sounds like it was a freak accident.”

Napoleon didn’t answer; he glanced up at the ceiling, as though trying to silently gauge how tall the lighthouse was.

“What are you thinking?” Illya asked.

“That something about this doesn’t add up,” Napoleon said. “Hawthorne said that the storm had cause the light to go out—but that doesn’t make sense. A place like this would get storms all the time, and the windows would be reinforced for it.”

“The windows must have had a breach.”

“Maybe…” Napoleon didn’t sound convinced. “You know, when morning comes, I want to get a look at the bottom of the cliff—see the rocks and things out there, and see where the ship went down.”

“We are leaving for New York in the morning!” Illya reminded him.

“True, but I did promise to try to solve this mystery,” Napoleon said. “Ah, well. At the rate this fog is thickening, I don’t think we’ll be going anywhere.”

Illya groaned.

“Very well; when morning comes, we can see what’s at the bottom of the cliff,” he relented. “In the meantime, I would like to attempt to salvage what little sleep we can for what remains of the night…”

They left the storage room and headed back up the stairwell, chatting a little bit about what they had found before slipping into bed together and falling asleep, nestled against each other once more.

**************************

Illya woke up first the next morning; he took a look out the window, and, sure enough, the fog had gotten thicker. Despite it being daytime, the visibility was practically zero; trying to travel in this would be asking for a disaster.

He groaned, burying his face in Napoleon’s shoulder.

“What’s up?” Napoleon murmured, still half-asleep.

“The fog. You were right; we’re not going anywhere.”

It was Napoleon’s turn to look, and he stared for a good few minutes before speaking.

“…Even I have to admit, that’s more than what I expected it to be…” he marveled. “Makes you wonder if there is something supernatural about it…”

He trailed off as he heard loud complaining out in the corridor; the two glanced at each other and headed out to have a look. Fusco was speaking angrily with Hawthorne, who was helplessly trying to explain that he was not in control of the weather. Both of them were ignoring Schuler, who was off to the side, trying to explain to James Jr. and Gina about his findings about the footprints in his room last night.

Lotte was some distance away from all of them, pacing frantically and looking extremely worried. As Napoleon now attempted to smooth things over with Fusco with his winning personality, Illya gently approached Lotte.

“Are you alright?”

“No. I believe this fog is the work of spirits,” she said. “They have done this to keep us from leaving…” She suppressed a shudder. “To keep _me_ from leaving.”

“What makes you think that?” Illya asked.

“You remember what Signore Schuler said last night about spirits being drawn to people who have had encounters with them before? Five years ago, I helped a woman who lived in our village,” she said. “She was walking and… Something unseen was trying to stop her—drag her down. I should not have helped… But how could I ignore what was happening in front of me…?”

“You shouldn’t have helped?” Illya repeated.

“The whole village, they warned me and Gina about this woman. She practiced _Stregheria_.”

From his travels, Illya knew what she was talking about—the layman would call it a form of witchcraft.

“The woman, she thanked me for her help, but warned me that the spirit saw me as an enemy now, and in revenge for helping her, the spirit had cursed me,” Lotte said, quietly. “She said spirits and creatures, both good and malevolent, would be forever drawn to me, my children, and my children’s children. I should have left things alone, but now, not only will these things plague me for the rest of my days, but I have doomed any future children I might have to the same fate.” She glanced out of the window. “So that is why I am convinced that the fog is here to prevent me from leaving.”

“…My partner was thinking the fog was caused by something supernatural,” Illya admitted. “But you are not the only one here; I have reason to believe…” He paused at his choice of words. There was a time just a couple years ago that he would not have “believed” anything of the sort! And as much as he still wanted to deny it, it had come to be an inescapable thing. “…I have reason to believe that my partner and I, too, have been held here by the fog, for we, too, have dealt with encounters from the… spirit world.” It sounded almost too ridiculous to say!”

He managed a smile.

“Of course, it could be coincidence—after all, Fusco is being forced to stay, and is quite unhappy about it. I think we can safely assume that he was not cursed.”

Lotte managed a wan smile; meanwhile, Fusco had calmed down slightly, but he still demanded to be able to leave.

“It’s like I told the young ladies,” Hawthorne said. “I can’t keep you from going, but you won’t get far.”

“I’ll take my chances!” Fusco said, a snarl escaping him. “Tell your Casanova son to get my bags!”

James Jr. looked affronted, but went to get Fusco’s luggage, anyway.

“He’s really going to try to go, huh?” Napoleon sighed.

“He is not our problem,” Illya insisted. “Whatever happens to him now is his affair, not ours. …And I wish we didn’t have to have a current affair now.”

“Were you two boys able to find out any clues to this thing from the records?” Hawthorne asked.

“There was one survivor from the wreck of the _Wyvern_ ,” Napoleon informed him. “The purser. That’s all we have for now, but we’ll keep looking—it’s not like we’ll be going anywhere. I know I wanted to check out the cliffs—and I would like to check out the top of the lighthouse, too.”

“You’re free to go up there,” Hawthorne said. “But the original lighting fixtures are long gone, remember?”

“I’d like to go up there, too,” Schuler said. “Isn’t that where you saw the ghost light last night?”

“Personally, I think you should go over the storage room where the old records were,” Illya said. “There may be some spirit activity attached to that; perhaps you can make heads or tails out of it while we poke about upstairs.”

Napoleon gave Illya a confused look; it certainly wasn’t the kind of request Illya would ask of anyone, let alone someone who got on his nerves. Nevertheless, Schuler eagerly headed to the storage area as Illya gave Lotte a reassuring look before he and Napoleon headed further upstairs, towards the light of the lighthouse.

“One question,” Napoleon said, as they headed up. “Why--?”

“Why did I ask Schuler to go to the storage room? Because I am sure he’ll find something to keep him interested there, and that will let us search the top of the lighthouse unimpeded.”

“…Smart Russian.”

Like the storage room, the top of the lighthouse had clearly been abandoned for a while—ever since the first electric light had failed and shipping lanes had changed.

“I’m not sure what you were hoping to find here,” Illya said. “As Hawthorne said, any evidence from the night in question would be long gone.”

“I guess I was wondering if one of the two ghosts might have been up here…” Napoleon said.

“And if there had been, what would you have done?” Illya inquired.

“Yeah, I see the flaw in my plan now,” Napoleon mused. “The ghost light I saw here last night was probably Adams, the keeper. Think about it; with all that emotional baggage from the sinking of the _Wyvern_ , he probably is unable to cross over to the other side. So, he shines a light in the lighthouse on foggy nights to make sure no one else suffers in the fog. I guess that’s his way of trying to make amends for his failure.”

“And the footprints walking down the lighthouse, across the lawn, and down the cliff into the water…” Illya said. “Do you suppose Adams is visiting the spirits of Captain Sturges and the crew at the sight of the shipwreck.”

“You know, I’ll bet that’s it,” Napoleon said. “But why were they unable to cross over? Is it because of how they died?”

“Don’t ask me; I wouldn’t begin to know…”

“Even forgetting about that for now,” Napoleon said. “That still leaves two questions unanswered. First of all, who was the other ghost that stole Schuler’s Polaroids and camera, and why did he do that? And secondly, what about the voice we heard saying ‘Wind hates me?’ Was that Adams, and what does it even mean? Is it about the storm blowing out the lighthouse light?”

“Doesn’t seem like that would be it. Are you sure that was what he said, Napoleon? You might have misheard him.”

“Very likely, I did hear him wrong,” Napoleon said, with an embarrassed shrug. “So, let’s focus on the first question. Assuming that the footprints Schuler first took pictures of were Adams’s, what other spirit was part of this drama and could benefit from getting rid of that evidence?”

“I wouldn’t know, but are you suggesting that this other spirit didn’t want us knowing it was Adams?”

“The more I think about it, the more it seems likely to me,” Napoleon said. “But I can’t imagine who it might be. Adams seemed to have worked here alone, based on those old logs of his.”

“It must be someone from the _Wyvern_ , then,” Illya said. “They are the only other players in this drama--”

He was cut off by a series of yells and screams coming from outside. The duo exchanged glances and took a look, staring at the sight of an equally angry and frightened Fusco in his car—which was suspended in midair.

“…Well, Tovarisch…” Napoleon said. “I think this case just took another interesting and bizarre turn.”


	4. Act IV: The Insatiable Greed

It took them some time to get back down the stairs and outside to where the others were gathered, but, as they arrived, Fusco’s car was already being gently laid back onto the ground. Despite this, Fusco scrambled out of the vehicle, still staring at it with a mix of horror and frustration.

“What happened!?” Illya asked.

“I don’t know!” Fusco bellowed. “I was trying to get through the fog, and, all of a sudden, the car started floating!”

“Look at where the car is pointed, though,” Napoleon indicated. “Right towards the cliff. You’d have ended up a ghost yourself if this one hadn’t intervened!”

Fusco grumbled something under his breath; Napoleon ignored him and turned to Hawthorne.

“We didn’t really find anything up at the top; there is one other place I wanted to look at, and that was at the bottom of the cliff—is there a trail that leads down there?”

“There is,” Hawthorne said. “But I’d advise against it in the fog, too—it’s pretty steep, even on the trail.”

“I say we forget that, Napoleon,” Illya said. “We’d be just as foolish as Fusco if we knowingly attempted that.”

Fusco glared at him, but Illya ignored him; Napoleon, of course, agreed with Illya, and then changed his inquiry.

“Do you happen to know the exact spot where the ship went down?” he asked.

“I do—not that it matters on a day as foggy as this, though—you won’t be able to see a thing,” Hawthorne sighed. “But on clear days, you can actually see the shipwreck under the water from the top of the lighthouse. …It’s a humbling experience—especially when the ghost ship rises from the spot, according to the thrill seekers.” He sighed. “And it doesn’t look like Junior and I will get away like we usually do—so we’ll be around with you when the ghost ship rises again.”

“So the ghost ship…” Illya began. “It rises on Halloween and… goes back down again by morning?”

“Just before dawn,” James Jr said, with a nod. “Apparently, at exactly the same time it sunk a hundred years ago.”

Lotte shuddered.

Schuler attempted to look through the fog, but gave up.

“Well, the ship will be visible through the fog, I’m sure,” he said. “Guess there’s nothing to do but sit around and wait for dark.”

Lotte turned and ran back inside, much to the concern of her sister, who followed her. Napoleon and Illya also went inside.

“Are you alright?” Napoleon asked.

“No. I wish to leave this place,” Lotte said.

“If it is a small consolation, the spirit of the lighthouse keeper is not a malevolent one,” Illya pointed out. “As you saw, he saved Fusco from his own stupidity.”

Lotte sighed and nodded; she had to agree with that.

“Illya’s right,” Napoleon said. “We’re perfectly safe in the lighthouse; this place is as solid as a rock--”

To demonstrate, he struck the central support column with his fist, which the stairwell was wrapped around, and was startled and distracted by a hollow clank. Illya and the sisters also stared at the column in confusion.

“…Well, maybe not as solid as I thought,” Napoleon said.

“Why would this central column be hollow?” Illya wondered aloud.

“Your guess is as good as mine,” Napoleon said. He turned to the Rigassi sisters. “Ladies, I highly recommend staying in your room if you want to feel safe; we’ll investigate the mystery behind this central column.”

The girls nodded and went back to their room as Napoleon and Illya inspected the central column as they ascended the spiral staircase.

“There’s only one reason why a central column would be hollow, Napoleon,” Illya said. “And that is to conceal something within it.”

“And if there’s something hidden in it, there has to be some way to get to it,” Napoleon agreed.

If there was something hidden, then it was well-hidden, however; as the duo continued to ascend the staircase, there didn’t appear to a way into the column, and soon, they were back at the light at the top—and the column did not continue into it.

“…Well, that didn’t make any sense at all…” Napoleon said. “Were we wrong?”

Illya paused for a moment, mulling things over. Absently, he kicked at the old, dusty carpet that covered the floor. Napoleon wrinkled his nose as dust filled the air, and he was about to say something when he looked down and noticed something through one of the threadbare patches of the carpet.

“Hang on…” he said, kneeling down in front of the spot. He frowned for a moment, and then knocked on the floor.

It, too, gave out a hollow sound; his eyes widened as he exchanged a glance with Illya, whose eyebrows arched in surprise.

Without even needing to say a word, the two of them pulled the carpet back, revealing a thinly-cut trapdoor in the floor.

“There is the entry,” Illya said, as he pried it open. He shined a flashlight down into the open pillar—sure enough, it was hollow all the way through. Moving the flashlight around revealed a series of metal rungs built into the side of the pillar.

“This must go to some sort of secret cellar down there,” Napoleon said. “I think I want to climb down and take a look…”

“I would advise against it,” Illya said. “But if you must, I wouldn’t trust this old ladder that is built into it; I have an extendable grappling hook in our supplies. I suggest we use that to climb down.

Napoleon considered this for a moment, and then nodded.

“Good idea,” he said. “But let’s act nonchalant—we don’t want the other guests realizing what we’re up to.”

“…How nonchalant can you look carry a grappling hook?”

Fortunately, they didn’t run into the other guests—the sisters were in their room, and the others were still trying to figure out what had happened to Fusco’s car outside.

Using the grappling hook, Napoleon clambered down into the hollow central column; he was keeping track of the floors, and paused once he realized they had certainly gone below the ground floor.

The central passageway continued for another 20 feet before Napoleon’s feet hit the ground; looking around with a flashlight, he saw that there was an underground tunnel that led downward, further into the cliff.

“Hey, Illya, it looks like we’ll be able to get to the bottom of the cliff after all!”

“Why do I get the feeling that this isn’t coincidental?” Illya replied, as he joined Napoleon and saw the tunnel.

“Because I’m sure it isn’t, too,” Napoleon said. “I think we may have found the key to this whole thing…”

The tunnel looped around and continued downward into the cliff; it was almost a half hour before it began to level off—and water soon was covering the floor of the tunnel.

“The tide affects the water level,” Illya realized, checking his watch. “See? The tide is coming in now—would you rather come back later, Napoleon?”

Napoleon frowned.

“Let’s see how much deeper it gets,” he said. “I think I’m okay for now--”

No sooner had he said that than he tripped over something and fell on his face into the water. Illya hastily helped him up as he gasped for breath.

“Okay, nevermind, let’s go back,” Napoleon sputtered. “Ugh… Well, here’s another suit for the laundromat.” He scowled at the wet mud and sand that now covered him.

Illya gave him a sympathetic look and glanced down to see what exactly Napoleon had tripped over.

“Napoleon!”

He aimed his flashlight in the water, showing what was once a small, wooden boat—now no more than chunks of rotten wood.

“Someone had been using this tunnel,” Napoleon said, forgetting about his muddy clothes in an instant. “But I wonder…” He trailed off as his flashlight caught the remains of letters carved into part of the wooden boat. “‘W…y…v…’”

“The _Wyvern_!?” Illya exclaimed. 

“It’s the lifeboat that Purser Smith must have taken!” Napoleon said, continuing to shine his flashlight around the pieces of the lifeboat. “Huh… What were the odds that the storm would send his lifeboat right into this cave…?” He trailed off again as his flashlight beam caught something else in and amongst the rotten wood—something mostly buried in the silt and mud, but still giving off an unmistakable shine…

Napoleon reached into the muck and pulled out a gold bar, covered in the gunk, but still very much a treasure. Illya’s eyes widened at the sight of it.

“The odds of the storm sending the lifeboat here by chance are not as likely now,” he said. He snapped his fingers. “Napoleon, do you remember Adams’s log? ‘I pray they will be able to make it safely, especially with that heavy cargo.’ Gold, Napoleon—they were carrying _gold_!”

“No _wonder_ they were willing to risk the storm to bring it in,” Napoleon said. He then frowned. “Then… that means that… Lying just off of the coast here is possibly…”

“…A fortune in century-old gold,” Illya finished. His eyes widened. “Napoleon, can I speculate on a possible scenario?”

“Speculate away…”

“Whenever merchant ships were carrying gold, there were, generally, very few people who knew about it—for reasons of safety.”

“Obviously,” Napoleon agreed. “In a case like this, the less who would know, the better.”

“Exactly,” Illya said. “The captain would know—and he would trust his first mate with this information, too. Keeper Adams seems to have known, as well, given the log entry, plus the fact that the shipping company would have been questioning him about the wreck later in order to find out what happened to their gold—unless the gold was off the ledgers, but, even so, Adams knew the captain well enough to be privy to the contents of the cargo. Other than the three of them, there would be no one else who would know in the event that things on the voyage go smoothly.”

“…But things _didn’t_ go smoothly; most of the crew got sick, including the first mate,” Napoleon recalled. “I see where you’re going with this—Captain Sturges had to let Purser Smith in on the secret of the cargo…”

“…And, somehow, Purser Smith becomes the sole survivor of the crew,” Illya finished. “With gold in hand, apparently, right into this tunnel.”

“And this tunnel goes all the way to the top of the lighthouse…” Napoleon realized.

The two exchanged glances.

“The light that went out!” they exclaimed, in unison.

“… _Bozhe moi_ …” Illya gasped. “Then it wasn’t Adams’s fault at all—Purser Smith sabotaged the lighthouse out of greed!”

Napoleon nodded.

“He grabbed some of the gold and took off in the lifeboat—probably couldn’t take as much as he wanted since it would be too heavy,” Napoleon theorized. “Either he knew about this tunnel, or just ended up in it by happenstance from the storm. Regardless of how he got here and found out where it led, he decided to take advantage of it.”

“He probably did not intend to have the ship sink,” Illya said. “At least, I would hope that was the case—perhaps he just wanted to run it aground, so that he could retrieve more gold later…”

“But the ship sank; it would have caused quite a stir—so many people milling around, including press and investigators…” Napoleon said. “Smith wouldn’t have had a chance to dive for the gold, Adams probably stuck around for long hours out of guilt, and the new keeper probably stayed extra hours, too, just to be vigilant and make sure nothing happened on his watch.”

“But then the place was abandoned,” Illya said. “Why did he not go for the gold then?”

“Maybe whoever ordered the shipment hired divers to collect it before Smith could,” Napoleon suggested. “But I feel like that would have been mentioned in the logs… Maybe Smith did go for the gold afterwards, who knows. At any rate, at least Adams has been vindicated…” Napoleon trailed off, slapping his forehead. “Vindicate! It wasn’t about the wind at all!”

“What?”

“What I thought I heard Adams say—he wasn’t saying ‘Wind hates me,’ he was saying ‘Vindicate me!’ He goes to visit Captain Sturges’s ghost at the shipwreck—Sturges probably told him about Smith’s betrayal!”

Illya paused.

“Then… do you suppose that the spirit who took Schuler’s camera and polaroids of Adams’s footprints was Smith—trying to keep us from finding out the truth?” he asked, putting the pieces together.

“That must be it; there’s no one else who would benefit from Adams taking the blame for the shipwreck,” Napoleon said. “But why would Smith be haunting this place if he eventually got his gold?”

They glanced at the gold bar in Napoleon’s hand, and then out the tunnel—towards the cliffside and the ocean.

“Perhaps he did not get the gold,” Illya said. “Perhaps he never got the chance—or perhaps he drowned trying to get it. Regardless of the reason, Smith never got to enjoy the gold.”

“That must have driven him crazy—in life, and after,” Napoleon mused. “Well, there’s nothing we can do about that—let’s get back up there and let everyone know the truth. Maybe then, Adams will finally be able to cross over once the truth of his story is out.”

Illya nodded and moved to follow Napoleon back the way they had come, but a sudden gust of wind that was abnormally chill-inducing blew back at them with such a force that they could not proceed down the tunnel.

“What’s going on!?” Illya demanded.

“I don’t think Purser Smith appreciates the truth getting out,” Napoleon scowled, and he furiously addressed the spirit. “Hey! It’s over! It’s been a hundred years—and everything you did was for nothing! Let this whole thing go, and let Adams and the rest of the _Wyvern_ crew cross over!”

The chill wind blew with a greater force, sending Napoleon flying backward into the rising water.

“Napoleon--!”

Illya swam after him, helping him stay afloat.

“What now…?” Napoleon said, looking at rising water with concern. “We can’t go back—and the tide is coming in…”

“…He means to drown us…” Illya said, going pale; Napoleon followed suit. “So many deaths are on his hands already—two more mean nothing at this point.”

“Should we try and rush past him again and try to get back up the tunnel?” Napoleon asked.

“It is not a force from this world; we’ll never make it,” Illya said. He looked behind him, at the exit to the sea that was rapidly being closed off by water. “We shall have to swim for it, Napoleon; it’s our only chance.”

Napoleon exhaled, cursing his weak swimming skills.

“I will help you,” Illya assured him, giving him an encouraging kiss.

Napoleon nodded, kissing him back, and the two of them swam—against the rising tide, out into the water.

Illya was, of course, true to his word, refusing to let go of his partner. A few times, they did end up, briefly, underwater, and they saw a glimpse of the wreck of the _Wyvern_ off in the distance. Once they finally made it to the shoreline, they glanced at each other, both of them exhausted from their efforts—as well as the grim truth of what had happened that night a hundred years ago.

So much death and devastation, and for what? Bars of yellow metal? Were they really worth the lives of so many innocent men? And yet, this was just one example—gold and the greed it caused had been the motive for plots upon plots throughout the course of history—and would likely continue for centuries to come.

After catching their breath, Illya spoke again.

“We need to make our way up the cliffside path; the tide will continue to rise,” he said.

“Smith will try to stop us,” Napoleon realized. “You heard what Hawthorne said; in this fog, the trek is going to be dangerous.”

“At least we have some amount of daylight,” Illya sighed.

No sooner had he said that than the entire area around the lighthouse and the cliff was surrounded in darkness.

“ _What_!?” Illya exclaimed in frustration. He aimed a flashlight at his watch. “It’s only noon!”

“His powers will be stronger in the dark,” Napoleon realized. “He’s giving himself an edge!”

“He can do what he wishes—we are not going to drown here!” Illya fumed. “I vowed after last year—I will _not_ let anything from the supernatural world take you away from me! My love—our love—is stronger than his greed!”

He kissed Napoleon again, and the darkness around the immediate area around them lifted slightly.

“…I think you’re on to something here, Illya,” Napoleon said, after they broke apart.

“You aren’t just saying that to kiss me again, are you?”

“No… well, mostly no,” Napoleon admitted. “But look; our kiss did this—lifted the darkness a bit. I think even part of the fog has thinned around us, too…”

Illya nodded.

“Let’s go, _Dorogoy_.”

It was a slow journey up the cliffside path—Smith sent everything he could at them to stop them, or send them tumbling down the cliff—darkness, wind, fog, and rain. But they stuck together, reaffirming their trust and love, and these acts of true love were enough to lighten the area and clear it of the malice-infected elements.

It was as they were nearly two-thirds up the hill that they paused; coming at them from the opposite end of the path was the blue ghost light Napoleon had seen in the lighthouse when they had arrived the night before—and following the light were Schuler, the Rigassi sisters, Hawthorne, his son, and even Fusco.

“I see them!” Lotte cried, pointing at Napoleon and Illya.

They hastened down the path as quickly as they could.

“What’s this?” Napoleon asked.

“You never came back from inspecting the pillar,” Lotte said, a slight quiver in her voice. “And then everything was covered in darkness. Gina and me, we told Signore Hawthorne and Signore Schuler for help—and then this appeared…”

She indicated the ghost light.

“We remembered what you said about this one not being evil,” Gina added. “So we all agreed to follow him, in the hopes he would lead us to you.”

“Yes, this is the ghost of the lighthouse keeper,” Napoleon said. “Who wrongly thought that he was responsible for the wreck of the Wyvern…”

The wind and darkness howled around them again, and Napoleon glared furiously at the greedy spirit.

“Look, I told you—it’s over! The power of love that Illya and I have is stronger than you can ever handle! And it’s not just the two of us—look around you, Smith! Look at these people who came to help us, when they haven’t even known us for 24 hours yet! They didn’t do this out of greed—this is a goodness that your dark heart can’t touch!”

For a brief moment, a dark, shadowy mass appeared, which then formed into the shape of a person—features were visible in the shadow: a face, bearing a furious expression.

“It’s over, Smith,” Napoleon said, again. “And your time is up.”

“ _Do svidaniya_ ,” Illya said, nodding, holding Napoleon’s hand.

Smith let out a frustrated, angry roar, leaped into the air, and plunged into the water—in the direction of the shipwreck, bound by his greed for gold.

The darkness around them dissipated—and then the fog lifted, too. The weather was a clear, fall morning, just as pleasant as could be.

The ghost light now also took a human shape—Adams, as he had looked in life.

“Thank you, my friends,” he said. “For clearing my name. It happened as you suspected—Smith betrayed Sturges and the crew, and led me to think that I had been responsible for the shipwreck. Sturges and the others never let him claim the gold in life—and now, he will continue in death to claim it, but in vain.”

“It seems to me a fitting punishment,” Illya said. “He will not be able to cross over until he finally learns to curb his greed.”

“But what about you?” Napoleon asked Adams.

“Now, I may finally rest—but I will wait until tonight, for when my good friend Sturges raises the ghost ship, I will join him—for they, too, were bound to this place until the truth came out.” He managed a weary smile. “I would be honored if you stayed here until tonight to see us off.”

Napoleon looked to Illya with a questioning look; the blond sighed, but managed a wan smile.

“Very well,” he said. “It can’t hurt.”

“ _Si_ … We, too, will stay,” Lotte said, causing everyone to look at her in surprise. Gina looked thrilled, exchanging a glance with James Jr.

“Well, you bet I’m staying!” Schuler added. “Hey, think I can get an interview with you, Mr. Adams? Sir? It’d be my first ghost interview--”

“Look, I really have places I need to be, so I’m going to have to turn down this little invitation,” Fusco said, gruffly. He looked back at Napoleon and Illya, and managed a nod. “You two did good,” he admitted, and then went back to his car and drove off.

“…He’ll never admit it,” Hawthorne said. “But I think he really was worried about you boys when you went missing.”

“Well, I do grow on a person,” Napoleon boasted.

Illya just rolled his eyes.

***********************

There was little ceremony or fanfare that night; Adams had regaled them with tales from a century ago until Captain Sturges and crew emerged from the water on a ghostly version of the _Wyvern_.

Adams thanked them again and walked out to join them, embracing Sturges’s spirit in joyous relief. And then, as the crew on board waved farewell, they vanished, ship and all—their souls at rest, at last.

By morning, they had gone their separate ways—the Rigassi sisters were on their way to Brooklyn by train while Napoleon and Illya headed to Manhattan by car, aiming to have U.N.C.L.E. track down the rightful owner of the gold and eventually return it to them; Schuler had extended his stay at the bed and breakfast to write out his next book on the story of the _Wyvern_ while everything was still fresh in his mind.

“You know,” Napoleon said, as they sailed along the highway. “Aside from the part where we almost got stuck in that tunnel with the tide coming it, it wasn’t a horrible adventure after all.”

“…I have to agree,” Illya admitted. “Stingy Jack was far worse. Most of the spirits were blameless, and the one malevolent one never stood a chance against us.”

“I wonder if he’ll ever let go of his greed…” Napoleon mused. “Well, even if he does, his fate isn’t so great—with all the lives he took and his lack of remorse, even if he did cross over, he’d end up with old Mr. Zero. He’s probably best off where he is—as an example of what happens when greed consumes you.”

Illya nodded.

“Very true,” he said. “You know I have always opted for living a simple life.”

“Well, comfort and luxury aren’t inherently bad things.”

“Of course not,” Illya agreed. “I will not look gift horses in the mouth—but I would be sure that others less fortunate than myself would get a chance to benefit from them, as well. And while I may roll my eyes at your penchant for the luxuries of life, I know that your heart is pure and will not be tainted by greed, for you put human lives ahead of riches—that was where Smith went wrong.”

“Everything I have, everything I have a birthright to… I’d give them all up in a heartbeat for you,” Napoleon promised.

“I know you would,” Illya said. “And I do not take that lightly.” He smiled. “You know I do not wear my heart on my sleeve, but I must say this--I do love you very much, Napoleon, and I know I am a wealthy man solely because I have you in my life.”

“Likewise, Illya,” Napoleon said, smiling back. “I love you, too.”

A partnership and love as strong as theirs was truly the most valuable treasure that could ever exist.

****

The End


End file.
